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Best Sinterklaas Ever

By: rondudderie



Best Sinterklaas ever
or
St. Nicolas's Rod

As told by Kate van de Casteele to Ron Dudderie.

This is a short story about the lives of Martin and Kate, the main characters of the 'Carstairs Trilogy' which consists of:

1. Best Sister Ever
2. An Audience With Carstairs
3. And The Winner Is

This story is set six years before the events in Best Sister Ever.

*****

I moved to the UK when I was ten, with my parents. That's never easy. I had to leave my class mates in Leiden (a university town in Holland) behind, which sucks. And suddenly I had to speak English all day, which is okay but can get a bit tiresome. It's not as if you can say: 'Okay guys, my jaw hurts. How about you all humour ME for a change?'

I didn't care for the food much, either. And the weather was hardly an improvement. But the worst thing, the absolute worst thing was leaving behind my big brother, Martin. I didn't sleep much, the first few months. Still, we found a way to make it work. And we found reasons to visit each other, even if they were lame. Hey come on, we're family. We don't need a reason, do we?

Actually, we sort of did, because by that time Martin was married to Monique. She put up with me and I tolerated her. That's as close as we ever got. But he absolutely adored her, because... Well, because he didn't know any better, I suppose. My brother never had the best of luck with women, so as soon as one came along that gave him the time of day, he fell for her. And that was Monique. The woman looked like a Praying Mantis with a blonde wig, but hey... she made him happy. You're happy when you THINK you are, right?

For 2007, when I was eighteen, my excuse to visit was the arrival of St. Nicolas in The Netherlands. I suppose I ought to explain that. You know how you guys have Santa Claus? Well, the Dutch have Sinterklaas, also know as St. Nicolaas, or Nicolas in English. He's a bishop, he lives in Madrid (yes, the one in Spain) and once a year he travels from Madrid to The Netherlands by boat. Sinterklaas is accompanied by a lot of assistants, called 'Zwarte Piet' or Black Pete. Oh, this is not a religious thing. Not in the slightest! Sinterklaas does not carry a bible, he never prays and he is not about religious conversion. He just happens to be a bishop. We all need to eat, right?

This is going to get a LOT weirder, trust me.

So why does a bishop from Spain come to Holland? Why, to give gifts to the children! His birthday is on December 6th, so on December 5th he leaves presents for everyone (I don't get that part either), accompanied by little poems that make fun of your misdeeds or your bad fortune in the past year. He distributes them together with his assistants, as he rides a white steed over the rooftops.

There so much more weirdness to come, you have no idea.

Sinterklaas is an elderly white man with a silvery beard and a moustache. He is dressed like a bishop, which is to say he wears a red mitre with a golden cross, a red velvet cloak (also with cross, on the back) and a white robe with a purple stola. He wears white gloves and carries a staff or a rod. It's gold-plated and curves inwards at the top, like a question mark that's doing a forward summersault. Technically it's called a crosier. One of his Petes carries a big book of kids names, which also lists if they have behaved in the past year or not.

You think the weirdness is done? Oh, you're so sweet and innocent. Strap in, bucko.

Black Pete is black. As in: his skin is black. Sometimes brown, but usually pitch black. That's because he travels up and down the chimneys, to spy on kids and deliver presents. Meanwhile, Sinterklaas and his horse (called Palomino) are waiting on the rooftops.

As you'll understand, a white man with a black assistant is a bit of an issue. Less so in 2007, but these days it's a proper shit storm each year. The Netherlands is a fairly diverse country and our immigrants from Surinam and the Dutch Antilles really don't care for this tradition. It doesn't help that, apart from the blackface, Black Pete is dressed like a Moor (which he is, traditionally; we have TWO explanations for his black skin), in a Renaissance outfit. He wears a cap with a feather, gold earrings and... here it comes... has big, red lips. Yup. Well, that's what you get with traditions that start in 1850. Recently, the United Nations called us out on it and said we ought to end this racist tradition. The committee on that topic was headed by a black, American woman. Oh, how we laughed. Yes, let's have Americans lecturing us about racism. How about we lodge a complaint with the UN about thanksgiving? That's about successful repression of the native Americans, isn't it? Or how about we all shut the hell up about traditions of other countries and let them deal with it?

There are many Black Pete's and, like the Smurfs, they don't have proper names. There is a 'Hoofdpiet', a Lead Pete if you will, a 'Pakjespiet' (a packages Pete), a Horse Pete, in short a plethora of Petes. There's also a Navigation Pete and they should fire his ass, because every year when Sinterklaas arrives (which is always the first Saturday after November 11th) the sodding boat gets lost. And if it's not the boat, it's the book or the rod or the horse or the mitre. I sometimes think black people are mainly angry because we're accusing them of bad inventory control.

There's more weirdness. Lots more.

The arrival of Sinterklaas in The Netherlands is televised. Each year a different city plays host. When Leiden, where Martin and I grew up, was 'it', he took me to see it. Hundreds of children and their parents lined up along the canals of Leiden to see the boat come in. My parents were at work, but Martin and I were inseparable then (I was seven), so even though it rained for most of the day, he picked me up and put me on his shoulders. I recall singing my tiny little lungs out, even though the boat was nowhere in sight.

When it finally came (the fuckers got lost again) and Sint Nicolaas rode his horse through the streets of Leiden, the actor who played him noticed me and came over for a chat. He was preceded by a marching band, playing one of dozens of special Sinterklaas songs. All the others kids were jealous of me, as you can imagine.

"Hello there! I know you! Remind me, what's your name again?"

"Kate!"

"Ah yes, Kate! Now I see. So, what would you like to get this year?" he asked, as he shook my hand with his gloved fingers. I remember a big golden ring with a purple jewel.

"A girlfriend for my brother!" I yelled. 

Look, I had no idea we were on TV, okay? I didn't notice the camera crew and even if I had, I fervently believed this was St. Nicolas and he could work miracles. My brother really, really deserved a girlfriend.

"Is that your brother?" asked The Sint. (We have so many names for him, get used to it.) Martin couldn't possibly hide, because I was on his shoulders at the time. We were both soaking wet and surrounded by throngs of people.

"Yes!"

The guy looked him over and said, with a smile:

"Well, he looks like a very, very good brother. I'm sure it will sort itself out soon enough. I'll get you something nice, don't worry. Bye Kate! Bye, Kate's brother!"

And off he rode, followed by a parade of Black Pete's who were throwing candy into the crowd, doing acrobatic stunts and climbing into lamp posts.

"Gee, thanks, Kate..." mumbled Martin. Everyone was looking at us. Poor guy.

That must have been in 1994 or thereabouts. I was seven and Martin was twenty-three. It was before he met Monique, or I'd have said: 'A DIFFERENT girlfriend for my brother!'

They still play that clip on occasion. Whenever they do a montage of what it means to be Dutch, you'll get the coronation of Queen Beatrix, the celebrations after the liberation of Nijmegen by Canadian forces, the winner of the most recent Eleven Cities skating tour, our victory over Germany in the 1988 European Soccer Championship and me, accidentally humiliating the man I love more than anyone or anything on this planet. I was only seven, but I still feel bad about it. Over 500.000 people saw it live. Those who missed it caught it on the eight o'clock news. We also have a tradition on New Year's Eve where a comedian reviews the year on TV. Millions of people watch that show. Guess what event was mentioned several times in it? I still cringe, I really do.

Anyway, in 2007 I came to visit Martin in Holland. Obviously I no longer believed in St. Nicolas, which meant I was now part of the conspiracy. It's such a wonderful tradition, it really is. No adult will EVER spoil it for a child. You can ask any police officer, teacher, bus driver or politician and they will not, under any circumstances, admit that it's a lie. You just don't do that. The entire country puts on a play for the kids, and once they figure it out they're told all the secrets and they play along. Isn't that marvellous? Sure, Americans have something vaguely similar with Santa Claus, but that character is based on the Sinterklaas tradition and it sometimes seems that only the Disney company still believes in him.

I liked being a part of it all and I liked being around my brother, so on a Friday, it must have been the 16th of November, I took an easyJet flight to Amsterdam and was picked up by him from Schiphol Airport. I don't fly easyJet nowadays but I've always been petite, so at least I could fit in the sodding seat with some room to spare. 

Martin was in his early thirties back then. He was beginning to lose his hair, but that's fine for men. His weight was okay, because Monique was a dietician and she kept him in check. Still, he's a big guy; broad shoulders, fantastic blue eyes that give the impression of being linked to a massive supercomputer, a dimpled chin and the best thing of all; big arms. Massive arms that can wrap around me and that make me feel safe and at home no matter where we are. And although he's no athlete, there is no doubt in my mind that he will literally tear apart anyone who so much as lays a finger on me. Someone once felt me up in a discotheque and I had to lie about it to Martin, because I am 100% sure he'd have found the guy and ripped his nuts off. I just slashed his tyres and keyed his car, so he got off easy.

I was restless from the moment I got on the plane in Luton and seeing him through the glass partition between the Schiphol baggage claim and the arrivals hall only made it worse. I love that guy, I really do. It's not healthy. I can't for the life of me imagine why it's not the case that every woman he meets just kneels in front of him and tries to open his pants. I would. Oh, fucking BITE ME. So I'm his sister. Big deal. It's not as if I'd actually do it. But a girl can dream, right?

Sinterklaas would arrive in the city of Kampen that year, but here's the thing: after the official arrival, which is on TV, he is also received in state EVERYWHERE ELSE. It's always a bit of a problem for cities and villages that aren't anywhere near a river or a canal, because he is supposed to show up by boat. The big cities, which includes Leiden, go all out on this. God knows who pays for it all, but in Leiden, which has a harbour, it's a massive event. They dress up some old steamer, they have dozens of Black Petes, there are thousands of people lined up along the canals and the Mayor receives Sint Nicolas on the steps of Leiden Town Hall. And then we all go home. Unlike Santa Claus, Sinterklaas is not available to be harassed in shopping malls, but he will visit schools, hospitals and even some companies and retirement homes. As you can imagine, there's some money to be made renting out Sinterklaas-outfits. Many a student picks up some nice cash visiting rich families with a few mates, to hand out the presents in person. Obviously you can tell from the eyes that these guys aren't elderly men, but kids are generally stupid and we also have extensive lore about the 'hulp-Sinterklaas'. It's the same story you tell kids who understand that Santa can't be in every mall in the country at the same time, basically.

I always travel light, especially on easyJet, so I only had a carry-on with me. I made my way through the green channel, looking forward to wrapping myself around him. Wouldn't you know it; they picked me for a random check. It took a lot of patience to remain calm and collected with the mouth-breathing asshole who felt it would be a worthwhile pursuit in life to bother people who are keen to be reunited with their families. Bunch of bastards... Obviously I understand that bags sometimes need to be checked. People smuggle ivory and stuff like that, which is bad (mmmkay?)

But why not be civil and a bit helpful? How is it my fault that your life went wrong to the point where you're little more than a miserable snitch with a uniform?

"So, why are you here?" the customs guy asked.

Presumably because you can't just pull black people out of the line; you need the odd white, blonde girl to make the not so random checks seem actually random. And then put her at station one, where everyone can see her. But I didn't say that. I said:

"I'm Dutch."

"That's not an answer."

"Yes, it is. I am Dutch. This is The Netherlands. That is why I am here."

He rummaged through my underpants. Shame they were clean.

"And what's this?"

He held up a bottle of almond shampoo. It said so right on the label.

"Christ if I know. It looks like a bottle of shampoo. Could be anything. Absolutely anything."

He opened it and sniffed. When he smelled almond shampoo, he looked disappointed.

"Okay, you can go," he sighed.

You know what pisses these bastards off? If you then take a looooooong time to pack your bag. They can't use that station. I neatly folded every damned piece of clothing in there.

"Could you hurry it up please?"

"Sure!" I said, with my biggest smile. I was hurting myself as much as I was annoying him, because Martin was out there. We had made eye contact, so he would be wondering why I wasn't coming through the sliding doors. But you need to teach these fuckers a lesson whenever you can. He'd be the first to agree.

"Miss, we need this..."

"Just a second... OOPS!"

I managed to push my trolly off the desk. Now I had to fold everything again. Such a shame. I kept him waiting for about fifteen minutes, fumbling around with my frilliest knickers (which you can't fold) and chatting away like an idiot to other people who had their bags searched. I'm tiny and I'm cute. I can get away with shit like that. 

Just before he was going to arrest me for deliberate obstruction, I closed my bag and made my way to the double doors. As soon as they opened and I saw my brother leaning against the silver railing, his arms folded and a smile appearing on his face as soon as he saw me, I knew I'd wasted my time trying to teach that heel a lesson. I could have had a quarter of an hour longer with him.

"Katey!" he said, opening those big arms, just as I'd hoped. I always make a point of climbing up him. He's big enough and I'm small enough for that to work. I stopped doing it when people began to film absolutely everything with smartphones, but in 2007 it was still okay. The first iPhone had just been launched, but hardly anyone in The Netherlands had one.

He laughed as I stamped him with kisses, moving his head to keep his lips away from mine.

"Yeah okay okay I get it, I get it! You're happy to see me," he said, putting his hands on my hips and lowering me gently to the ground. People around us smiled. They probably wouldn't have, had they known I wasn't his girlfriend.

"What took you so long?" he asked, picking up my trolley. God, he looked good. He wore a suit, presumably because he'd come from the office.

"Customs needed to prove they're not racists."

"Oh, right. Even though they totally are. It's so good to see you, sweetheart. How are mom and dad?"

"Great. Mom bought a double bed, for you and Monique. So nothing is to stop you both from going to Hastings for a visit."

I could tell from the expression on his face it wasn't going to happen. Our parents live in Hastings. Had they chosen to retire in Paris, Monique would probably have moved in with them.

"We'll see..." was all he said. No fucking chance, in other words.

Although we grew up in Leiden, we drove to his villa in Soest. (Which is pronounced 'soost'.) It's a small village just outside Utrecht and it has a reputation for being the sort of place where rich people like to buy property. I'm a city girl, but Soest is all about secluded villas and wide open spaces. There are sandy dunes, forests, meadows and grasslands. The army has a few firing ranges there, and the actual village has a few more hairdressers and jewellers than you might expect. Can't move for fucking Land Rovers and Jaguars.

My brother has done well. He graduated as an economist, but his passion is mathematics. He has his own business, which is growing year by year. I'd love to tell you what it is they do, but I have no idea. It's about key cards and secure transactions. Very exciting, yawn. Still, he's doing well out of it. So well, in fact, he managed to buy Monique a massive villa and a very nice sports car. She goes on expensive shopping trips with her friends and I don't think she even knows buses exist. Her nails and hair are always immaculate and she only wears the big brands and exclusive designs. Her favourite is the Dutch designer Marc Jacobs, who used to be the creative director for Louis Vuitton. But she also likes Fendi, Hermes, Versace, Armani, Dolce & Gabbana, Gucci, Dior, Chanel... She'll wear all of them, she's not fussy... And she buys so much, she tends to get invited to the presentations for new collections in Paris and London.

You wouldn't think a woman like that would cook, but to her everlasting credit she does and it's a good thing too or my dear brother would have imploded into a black hole long ago. He eats when he is sad. And he's been sad a lot. Monique trained as a dietician and even though she's never actually worked as one a day in her life, she can cook a hell of a lot better than me or our mum and she's found a few recipes he likes. Men are easy; feed them and show them your tits once in a while and they'll think they're well taken care of. Especially Martin, because he doesn't know any better.

"Hello Catharine," said Monique, giving me the traditional three kisses. I always forget there's another one coming when I'm in Holland, so we nearly touched lips when her face zoomed past unexpectedly. I don't kiss Martin three times, you see; I kiss him until he makes me stop.

"It's lovely to have you here. Did you have a good trip?"

At a quick glance I appraised her outfit to be around three thousand pounds. The house was, as ever, spotless. Martin had driven his car, some sort of Mercedes, all the way up the gravel path to the front door.

"Hi Monique. Thank you for having me."

"Any time, dear. Martin? It's just you and Catherine for dinner tonight, I'm afraid. I have a vernissage. Marlene Dumas, the one who does the South African themes. She's very expressionistic and conceptual. Very erotic, too."

I suppose the explanation was for my benefit. I like a dirty picture as much as the next girl, but God save me from an evening with stick-thin women getting sloshed on Riesling and caviar crackers.

"Tell her I said hi," answered Martin, bringing in my bag and kissing his wife, who turned her cheek. "And don't buy anything. She's one of the richest artists in all of Holland. I prefer to give the new kids on the block a break, even if they don't serve wine and canapés."

"But she's very nice," whined Monique.

"Doesn't mean I should give her another five thousand for a piece that looks exactly like all the others. I'm serious. Don't buy."

"But that's so impolite!"


Best Sinterklaas Ever



"My darling, it's not as if she is selling five euro trinkets. The cheapest pieces she has are a few hundred euros. If you feel obligated to buy one because you've had two glasses of white and a few pieces of toast, I'd rather you gave her one hundred bucks as soon as you walk in. That works out considerably cheaper."

"We'll see," answered Monique. If I were him, I would see that as grounds to lock her in the basement. You just KNOW she's going to buy something now, right?

Their house is nice. I can never work out if Monique has taste or if she hires people with taste, but Martin has an eye for nice antiques and they haven't filled the place up. You can't really go wrong with cream carpeting and antiques, can you?

Monique took me to the guest room at the far end of the house, which has a niece view of the garden. It's massive, with a pond in the middle.

"How long will we have you, Catherine?" asked Monique, as she took some fresh towels from a cabinet in the hallway and presented them to me. I knew there would be a big, white bathrobe hanging near the shower. They buy theirs. Isn't that just pure class?

"Well, we're off to the arrival of Sinterklaas tomorrow and the day after is Sunday. I'm booked on a Sunday night flight back, but it's a late one."

"So we will have dinner tomorrow night?"

"I... You know, we haven't planned it. There's every chance we'll stay in Leiden and get something to eat there."

She gave a thin smile.

"If you do, keep an eye on him, would you? Not a starter AND dessert. And I know you'll both have fries, which is fine, but try to steer him away from the peanut sauce, okay?"

"I will. He looks good, Monique."

"I know, dear. And that involves a lot of hard work. Now, dinner for both of you is in the fridge. Top shelf. I know you like all things pizza so that's easy. Martin is having a vegetable lasagna. Thirty minutes at 180 degrees, same as your pizza. Don't steal too much off his plate, it's supposed to be 1250 calories for him and I don't want him snacking later tonight. He can have two speculaas cookies with his coffee, but no more. Okay?"

"Got it."

Speculaas is a particular spice mix. If Holland had an official smell, it would not be herring or cheese; it would be speculaas. We were big in the spice trade in the days of the East India company, so we had ample supplies of even the most exotic spices. Sadly, apart from inventing the speculaas blend we didn't do too much with them; we had to colonize Indonesia before you could finally eat well in The Netherlands.

Martin found us, bringing up my luggage.

"Hello ladies! Say, Monique, would you like to join Kate and me tomorrow? It will be nice to..."

"No dear, thank you. Bit too crowded for me. Well, Catherine knows about dinner so I'll be off then."

"May I have a kiss?"

He hadn't had a proper one yet. Not from her, at least. I saw her suppress a sigh.

"I did just put my lipstick on, dear."

I couldn't help myself.

"I should think your brand was kiss-proof, Monique!"

Martin clearly had no idea this technology existed.

"Is it?"

"I don't know. I'm not sure prostitutes can afford MAC. Now, I'll be home around tennish. And I would appreciate it if there was no repeat of the pillow fight you two had last time."

As the joke goes: you fuck ONE goat...

"Have fun, sweetheart," said Martin. But before he finished even that brief sentence, Monique was headed down the hallway. A few seconds later the front door shut and her car, a baby blue Audi convertible, crunched its way to the gate over the gravel path.

"Shame. I was looking forward to having dinner together," said Martin, trying not to look at me as he fussed with carry-on. I put my hand on his back. Frankly, I would have liked to give him the kiss his own wife had withheld him.

"We'll have fun together. I promise. Don't we always?"

I was relieved to see him smiling in the mirror on the credenza next to the wardrobe.

"Yes. Yes, we always do."

And so we did. I was actually a bit tired and I had a headache, but I took two aspirins, downed a glass of diet Coke for the caffeine and then, after dinner, I made him build a blanket fort with me, between the couch and the television. That took some doing, but I just dragged my bedding downstairs and made him get into his pyjamas. My brother wears actual pyjamas... 

I was eighteen then, but the thing is: he doesn't always realise that I, too, get older. I'll always be his little sister and when it comes down to it, he'll do anything to make me happy. And the same goes for me, of course. And so we made a blanket fort. 

"What shall we watch?" he asked, as we sat on the floor with the couch in our backs. Two high dining table chairs were on either side of us, as the support struts for our roof. The roof that would be my duvet in a few hours.

"Battlestar! What else!"

He sighed, but he laughed at the same time.

"They do make new stuff, you know."

"Oh, come on! One episode! It's tradition!"

He chuckled and began to work two remotes at once. A minute or so later an episode of Battlestar Galactica, the original series, began to stream from a computer somewhere in his house. We spoke the opening lines together, in perfect synchronicity.

'There are those who believe... that life here began out there, far across the Universe... with tribes of humans... who may have been the forefathers of the Egyptians.. .or the Toltecs... or the Mayans. Some believe that there may yet be brothers of man... who even now fight to survive. Somewhere, beyond the heavens!'

I loved that show as a kid. The gleaming Centurions with the scary red eyes were magnificent, obviously. But what I liked most of all, because I was actually afraid of him, was a creature called Lucifer. He was the assistant to Count Baltar, a traitor to the human race. Lucifer had a purple, plastic face with red eyes and a pointy head that ended in a transparent cone. You could see his brains working as he spoke, in a sinister British accent. Martin could mimic him perfectly and I made him do that all the time. Lucifer's catchphrase is: 'By your command,' spoken in a way that implies that, whatever happens, Lucifer will not take the rap for it.

Actually, Martin could do tons of voices. It's wonderful being a kid and having the opportunity to have actual chats with all your favourite animated characters, provided they were male. I will admit I've had a few too many discussions over the phone with Courage the Cowardly Dog, Foofur, the Bear in the Big Blue House and SpongeBob Squarepants about the meaning of life as I understood it, at age six. They all seemed very insistent on me taking school seriously and tidying up my room. My brother is a good actor, but more than that: he'd make a terrific father. And he has been, to me. Let's be charitable to dad, who worked fifty hour weeks, and to mom, who worked at least as much but often at night, and say I had three parents. One really great one and two backups.

I could tell Monique's pending arrival made him a bit nervous, so at around ten we cleared up the fort and just got on the couch, under the blanket. Come on, we're siblings. We're allowed. And that is how she found us when she came home with a not very attractive watercolour that I was almost certain depicted a vagina with a lilly in it. I may be wrong, though. Might have been a rose.

"Only five hundred!" she said, triumphantly holding up the twenty by twenty piece. I'm using centimetres here, but that's about the size of an A4 sheet of paper.

"Well, if you like it that much..." sighed Martin. "Let me know where to put it up."

She laid it flat on the dining table and took off her scarf.

"I don't know! You have space at the office, put it up there! It doesn't really go with anything here. Now, shall I turn off the lights or are you two snuggle-bunnies watching another episode of Ren & Stimpy, or whatever it is? Oh and why are the dining chairs not where you found them? They're supposed to be in the indentation on the carpet. See to it, please. Good night."

We stayed up late, ignoring three episodes of Galactica because we were talking, arm-wrestling, trash talking and quietly making sandwiches in the kitchen. Around 1 p.m. we both turned in.

That night I had a dream where I dragged Monique to the pond and drowned her in it. I was sad to wake up and find I wasn't soaking wet. It was a bit early, but back then I could get by on very little sleep. I could also eat like a horse, so I snuck downstairs again to get myself an early breakfast. Martin sometimes calls me a hobbit, but not because of my height; it's because of the number of meals I fit in a day. I'm not sure why I was blessed with an efficient digestion and he wasn't, but there you are. Then again, I can skip meals for days when I'm busy and live off crackers and coffee. Martin gets dangerously cranky when his blood sugar dips below 'frosting'.

I was surprised to see him asleep on the couch, rather than in his own bed upstairs, but it was a great opportunity to wake him up by dropping myself on top of him him and trying to smother him with a pillow immediately afterwards. I won't repeat what he said, but it was hilarious. He did get a good punch in, but I only had myself to blame for that.

"You... You... miserable..." he grunted, once he had shook me off. Martin is not someone who wakes up easily.

"Why aren't you in bed?"

He tried to tell me, but his tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth. I went to the kitchen to make him a cuppa. After a minute or so he joined me, dressed in a red and black satin housecoat. My brother is not one for pottering about in his underwear. I am, but I'm cute. It would be a shame to deprive the world of that sight.

"It's not even seven yet," he moaned, as he stumbled into the kitchen.

"Why were you on the couch?"

"Monique said I was a bit restless and I snored. I usually do, when I've had a beer."

"Yes, but... Why on the couch?"

"Because you're in the guest room. Tea is in the top left cabinet."

"Yeah, but... You should have kicked out Monique. She could have slept in my bed. I don't mind your snoring; in fact, I think it's relaxing."

"I would have done that, but I didn't have the number of a swat team to give me backup. Tell Monique to leave her own bed? You must be joking. There is a bath robe in your closet, by the way. Jesus, are those knickers transparent?"

"Yes. Well, a bit. Do you like them?"

I lifted my arms and turned around. My T-shirt raised up. Predictably, he turned his head like I was some sort of hideous old hag.

"You'll catch cold, Katey."

"You prude. I bet Monique doesn't galavant around in frilly knickers in the morning."

"I wouldn't know, I'm never here before nine. One of the perks of running your own company is that you can come in late. And steal as many paperclips as you like. I'll get that bath robe for you. No sugar in mine, I'll have two sweeteners."

Two hours later we were on our way to Leiden, which is about an hour by car from Soest. But then, this was Holland. Practically everything is an hour away, unless you get stuck in traffic. Although Sinterklaas would be arriving at 2 p.m. we needed to be there early because we were volunteers. Mrs. Bloothooft, who used to cook for us when we still lived in Leiden, was one of the people who helped organise the Sinterklaas event. It's usually the same committee that does the 'carnaval' parade, which is somewhere between March and April. Oh right, carnaval... Let's not get into that. Anyway, these people knew exactly what to do, because they'd done it countless times before. 

We drove to the training grounds of a local soccer club, Valken 68. Their grounds border a deep canal, where an old steamer which was usually called Caroline but that today went by the name of Pakjesboot 4 (Packages boat 4), was moored. It's not actually an old steamer any more because the steam engine had been replaced by a diesel. It still had a chimney stack, though, which could produce vast amounts of smoke by burning a special mix of birch wood and coal. Half a dozen cars were parked in front of the tiny sports canteen. I spotted Mrs. Bloothooft's old Fiat Panda right away.

We found her ironing the red cloak of Sinterklaas, surrounded by volunteers who were going through the script for today. She rushed up to hug us, told us both we were too thin (which Martin loves to hear, but I don't) and before long we were given coffee and instructions. I would be manning one of the make-up tables, as about thirty people needed to be given blackface and costumes for the role of Black Pete. Martin wasn't one of them; he knows a thing or two about boats, so he would be wearing blue overalls and helping out Ton, the Captain. Ton would have to be on deck most of the time, so Martin would stay down below to keep an eye on the engines and the fire for the smoke.

I would be a Black Pete, because even if you think the whole affair is racist, it's not sexist. Apart from the fact Sinterklaas is a white guy, of course. But Black Pete can have boobs, that's perfectly fine. They're hidden under those Renaissance clothes anyway.

It was nice to catch up with friends and old neighbours, but soon enough I had a queue of people who needed a costume, fake earrings, make-up and lipstick. Black Pete wears black gloves, because make-up on your hands is impractical. We had one guy from Surinam who was also a Pete. Not all of them moan and bitch about it, let's not forget that. 

The most important character is, of course, Saint Nicolas himself. The part would be played by someone from the fire brigade. Quite a few Petes were firefighters. Sinterklaas and the fire department have always been linked; if the Good Saint visits a school, he is usually given a ride by a fire truck. And quite a few scenarios that start with him or one of the Petes getting stuck on a roof or on a ship with engine failure involve the fire department as well. The colours match, too. And they have communication equipment, which helps to coordinate these things.

Our Saint Nicolas would be played by Willem, a commander of the fire department. He was in his mid forties, broad-shouldered (nobody likes a weedy Sinterklaas), had a deep voice and he was about five foot eight. You don't want a Sinterklaas that's too tall, or he'll lose the bloody mitre each time he goes through a door. Obviously a dwarf is no good, either. In fact, it's not every guy who can play him, if only because you need near infinite patience with little kids who insist on telling you incomprehensible stories. Being able to ride a horse helps too, though there's generally a Horse Pete available, who guides the animal with a lead rope. Sinterklaas is busy waving at the crowd, after all. But you have to be fit enough to mount and dismount whilst wearing a dress, so generally people over sixty are out. Willem fit the bill. He was a shameless flirt, though. I was one of his first targets, presumably because everyone else with tits was either sixty or over or covered in black make-up. After a few tries he gave up trying to engage me in conversation, but a new target appeared soon enough... Asshole. Who chats up a girl of eighteen? And anyway, he wasn't my type.

Even though the arrival in Leiden was a local affair, which would not be televised, we did have some media attention. Local TV stations aren't really a thing in Holland; TV takes vast resources to produce, compared to radio, so you only find that in the big cities: Amsterdam, Rotterdam, The Hague. And it sucks. But practically every city had its own local radio station and Leiden was no exception; Leiden Lokaal FM was out in force and one of their reporters showed up to pre-record an interview with Saint Nicolas. It was a woman in her mid thirties, accompanied by a slightly older, scruffy man. Mind you, these people were volunteers. Nobody in local broadcasting makes any money in The Netherlands. It is, however, a stepping stone on the way to a proper media career, and the woman who came to see us was obviously on that trajectory. She was very attractive. Not very tall, but with a delicate face lined by cute, dark curls.

As soon as she stepped in, I saw Martin's face sink. He had been quietly minding his own business, collecting coffee and tea mugs and washing them up. That's what he does. He sees what needs doing and it doesn't matter that he is the CEO of a growing business, flying off to far away countries to broker deals. Cups need washing, coffee needs brewing. But now he seemed annoyed. I had a better look at the reporter. She seemed familiar, somehow.

Martin stepped away from the bar, opened a rear door and quietly disappeared.

"Just a sec," I said to the young man I was slathering in black make-up, as I shot up and followed Martin. I found him leaning against the back wall of the canteen, his hands in his pockets and with one knee bent so his foot was against the wall.

"Oh, hi," he said, as I came through the same door.

"Martin, what's wrong?"

"Nothing. Just having a break."

"Oh come on! It's me you're talking to. Tell me."

"I'm just not that keen on someone who just came in. They'll be gone soon enough."

I imagined a different hairstyle on the female reporter. Now it made sense.

"Is that... Esther?"

"Yup."

I found I still had some cotton swabs with black paint in my right hand, so I opened one of the trash cans and tossed them. Esther. One of the first to screw him over. Martin used to help tutor people in mathematics at business school. Specifically statistics, which was a difficult subject for many first and second year students. But, ever the businessman, he charged them for their time. However, if they passed, they got a partial refund. Now they had skin in the game and being tutored wasn't simply an excuse to say: 'Hey dad, I tried everything, but I just don't get it.'

Esther had been one of those people who needed private lessons and came to the house after dinner. And pretty soon she figured out that, rather than paying this nice and patient but somewhat shy boy, she could get her lessons for free plus some extras, just for pretending to like him. Eventually she dragged him along on dates, because he was the kind of guy parents like to see their daughter leave the house with. He'd end up paying for everything, including drinks for the friends she 'happened' to meet while they were out. And then he was the only one who was sober, so he drove everyone home. I was a bit too young to understand what was going on and it didn't help that by that time I lived in the UK, but one day he had enough and they 'broke up'. Well, he did; she never had been in a relationship with him, as far as she was concerned. And for six months, I had a hell of a time even getting him on Skype. My friends reported he was barely seen outside and it didn't take a genius to figure he was going through a pretty bad depression. Meanwhile, I was a young girl in school, in a different country. I couldn't do anything about it, except demand to speak to him as often as I could. Weekends were particularly hard on him.

"I'll let you know when she's gone," I said, standing on tiptoes to kiss him on his cheek. And then I had to go back, because we still had to do seven Petes and I was one of them.

Inside, Esther was interviewing Willem. He wasn't dressed as Sinterklaas yet, not even a little, but this was radio. I listened in while I finished with the guy I had left with a partially black face.

"I am here with Sint Nicolaas, who will shortly be arriving in Leiden. Hello Saint Nicolas, how are you?"

Willem, who wore jeans and a blue sweater, was leaning against the bar. He knew how to play the part.

"Hello Esther, what a pleasure to talk to you and your listeners. I am very well and looking forward to meeting the boys and girls of Leiden. And so, of course, are all the Petes and my horse Palomino."




Best Sinterklaas Ever



"And have the children been good this year?"

Nobody needs to rehearse conversations like this. Kids only believe in Sinterklaas for a few years, so it's the same story year in year out.

"Mostly, I'd say yes. I will certainly double check in the big red book and it is entirely possible that one or two of them are going to end up in Pete's big sack and getting a free trip to Spain, but if you've been good then you have nothing to worry about."

"Oh, that is good news! And how is the trip going so far?"

The trip never goes well. They always get lost, or there's some other problem. Willem began to stir his coffee, but a look from Esther told him that would end up on the recording so he stopped.

"Ah, yes, ahh... Could be better. I think Pathfinder Pete is having a bit of trouble finding Leiden. And we're running late as it is, because Palomino did not want to get out of bed this morning. It was only when we told him we would be going to Leiden, that he got up. Then he went for a stroll to wake up and we haven't seen him since. I asked him to take a mobile phone with him, but he hasn't got any fingers so there would be no point."

"I do hope everything turns out alright, Sinterklaas!"

"As do I, of course."

Bla bla bla. Meanwhile, everyone was quietly getting dressed in black tights, putting on frilly black wigs and having one last cup of tea. When the interview was finally done, Willem and Esther seemed in no hurry to stop talking. I think Willem actually said something along the lines of showing her his staff!

When Mrs. Bloothooft passed by my table, I whispered:

"Could we get rid of her? We need to get Willem into costume."

"Yes, dear," she said and two minutes later Esther and her engineer were out the door. Willem waved her off. Martin must have seen their car leaving, because soon enough he was behind the bar again, like nothing had happened.

Mrs. Bloothooft did my make-up, or at least the parts I couldn't easily do myself. At around one p.m. we were all ready. Willem was now Sinterklaas, including the gloves, the mitre and the crosier staff. We were acting the part as soon as we left the building, just in case any small kids were around. In a stately procession we walked from the canteen to the canal, across one of the pitches. Willem had to be helped over a low fence that held some weathered advertising billboards and then we all boarded the Caroline. Our Captain, Ton, was also the owner. Together with some friends he kept this piece of industrial heritage in shape, as a labour of love. Events like this were an opportunity for him to make a bit of cash. The Caroline would easily do six or seven trips like these in the next few days. Ton was a soft-spoken man who would never use two syllables when one sufficed. Yes, No and Sure was all he ever said.

Martin was the last one on board, as he untied us and pulled up the gangplank. He stood out a bit, as the only 'civilian' on board. Ton, as our Captain, at least wore a naval uniform of sorts. The boat was loaded with big, velvet bags filled with (fake) packages; empty boxes wrapped in pretty paper. We also had a lot, and I do mean a lot, of 'peppernuts'. They're tiny, hard-baked rye cookies with a particular blend of spices, different to speculaas; 1 tsp each of cinnamon, ground nutmeg and ground cloves, plus ½ tsp each of ground aniseed and ginger. Or, you know, buy them by the pound from every supermarket as of early October. We must have had a hundred kilos on board.

The ship was decorated with colourful flags and all we were missing was a horse. There wasn't room for one, but Palomino was patiently waiting in a police trailer downtown, somewhere out of sight. Police horses are great for Sinterklaas; they're used to big crowds and they're very calm. The 'Horse Pete' is pretty much always a police officer from the mounted division. If some lunatic decides to have a go at Sinterklaas, this guy will have him in handcuffs in a matter of seconds.

"How do I look?" I asked, with my arm around Martin as we watched out across the water. The canal would lead us to the 'Old Rhine', which used to be the Rhine that you're thinking of until a flood in 1163 changed its course. We were about twenty minutes away from Leiden, but we were in no hurry at all. Sinterklaas is supposed to be late.

"Very cute, Katey. Which is nice, for a change. I'm going to light the fire, so we'll arrive with a nice trail of smoke."

And with that, he opened a hatch and disappeared into the engine room.

Ton turned on the radio on the bridge and tuned into Leiden Lokaal FM. We could hear a live broadcast, which included Esther. Hundreds of families were gathering along the canals, in anticipation of our arrival. The news we were having some difficulty finding Leiden this year had not escaped several young kids, who told Esther and her fellow reporters they were quite nervous about it. The fact Palomino was AWOL was the talk of the town, at least amongst five year olds. Meanwhile, marching bands played St. Nicolas songs while the mayor was interviewed and told everyone he had been in contact with Pakjesboot 4 and that everything was under control. Probably. 

I love that spiel. Some Petes were already in town, making sure they popped in and out of busy places, like they were part of some reconnaissance force. Their appearances brought extra tension to the narrative on the radio. Someone's seen a Pete! Yes, we're sure! Keep an eye of the rooftops!

Meanwhile, a radio in someone's pocket began to chatter. One of the firemen pulled out a walkie talkie the size of a brick and stepped away to the back of the ship. That conversation didn't take long.

"WILLEM! We have a code 4 on the airfield."

"Jesus Christ, what?!" asked Sinterklaas.

Valkenburg naval air base lies just outside Leiden. It had been in use by the Royal Netherlands Navy up until 2006, for their Lockheed P-3 Orion aircraft. (I once did a school report on it.) When the Orions were sold to Germany and Portugal, the airport was more or less redundant, but it was still operational for emergency landings and military operations. Even though Schiphol Airport is nearby, there are presumably problems they prefer to handle elsewhere. And I have no idea what a code 4 is, but apparently it requires the presence of a senior fire department officer because Willem said:

"I have to get off this ship. As in: right now."

This caused some commotion. Mrs. Bloothooft wasn't on board, but she was notified by phone and she had a spirited discussion with Willem while he was taking off his outfit. We were told one of the patrol boats that would accompany us into town was on its way to take Willem to the shore. We were surrounded by grassland here, so if we let him off here he'd be stuck in the middle of nowhere.

"Who is going to be Sinterklaas!?" asked just about everyone.

"Look, I don't know. I'm sorry, okay? Scrub off one of the Petes. Or let Ton do it!"

"I.. I... r... r... really d...d... don't th... think that... that... is a... a... good idea," stammered Ton. Well, now we knew why he was always so quiet! A small, grey rubber boat with a blue flashing light came from the direction of Leiden, with two men in frog suits. Any kids that fell into the canal right now would presumably be in serious trouble. Willem had his regular clothes with him and before long we were all holding one or more pieces of the Sinterklaas outfit. One of the Petes was washing his face in the galley. I had a look.

"You have a moustache!" I exclaimed

He looked like barber from the 1920's.

"Yeah... Well, it will disappear under the other one, won't it?" he said, as he scrubbed his neck. This make-up was grease based. It was hard to get off without a lot of soap.

"No it won't! Yours is black! You'll have to shave it!"

"Yeah, shave it!" laughed the others.

"What? I'm not shaving my moustache! I'm a gym teacher! I'll look like a dork for weeks!"

There was another problem: Leiden has a local accent and this guy had it pretty bad. I can't relay it in English, but it's not how Sinterklaas is supposed to speak. Meanwhile, we were all getting smothered by smoke from the chimney. People began to cough and tapped on the hatch to the engine room. Martin's head popped out.

"Look, you need to move this thing or the smoke will just stay here," he muttered.

"He can do it! Martin! You have to be Sinterklaas! Willem has an emergency," I cried. He would be perfect! He was clean-shaven, didn't have make-up on him, he had a fairly deep voice and would be able to imitate Willem effortlessly.

"Sod off," said Martin, and pulled the hatch shut behind him as he disappeared into the machine room.

"Zie ginds komt de stoomboot uit Spanje weer aan! Hij brengt ons Sint Nicolaas, ik zie hem al staan!" sang thousands of children and adults, as we cleared the final bridge in Leiden and turned into the canal where Sinterklaas would disembark. We were a bit late, but that was okay. 

It was awesome to see hundreds of relieved little faces, many with home-made Black Pete hats made out of papier-mâché, staring in wonder at our ship. Saint Nicolas was on the rear deck, so he could be seen from both sides of the canal. It was dry for a change; usually this event takes place in the rain. Leiden looks her best from the water, I've always felt. 

We didn't pass our house, but I did remember standing near the dock with Martin. If you'd have told me he would be Saint Nicolas one year, I'd have wet myself from laughing. But now he was right next to me, waving at the crowds with his white-gloved hands. He wore the costume very well. Red, flowing robes, a white alb, the purple stola with the gold crosses... It's so familiar to every Dutch kid. Obviously we had brought the cosmetic glue to attach the facial hair with us on board, for emergency repairs. Oh, when I say stola I don't mean something fluffy Miss Piggy might wear. It's just a very long, rather narrow, flat piece of cloth. Sinterklaas is anything but camp.

"Are you having fun yet, Sinterklaas?" I asked.

"It's okay, I suppose. I just hope I won't have to listen to too many stupid songs."

We both waved. Martin barely moved his hand, because he was supposed to be old and dignified.

On his way to City Hall, Sinterklaas would have to stop at several displays. They were usually short song and dance performances by school children, but they might just as easily be a magic trick or a brief historical presentation on the city that Saint Nicolas was visiting. Martin was always patient with me, but he wasn't the least bit interested in interacting with other kids.

"Just smile and think of England," I said. Dear God, my wrist already hurt from all this waving.

"England?" asked Sinterklaas, looking straight ahead and smiling but sounding annoyed. "Someone's been away for a bit too long."

"Sorry, Sinterklaas," I chuckled.

In the distance the rubber boat that had taken Willem to the nearest landing-stage, so he could get into a fire department staff car, was coming towards us. The national police, which is a separate service to the local departments, had a ship here today as well. They were ahead of us, as a formal escort. Leiden Lokaal FM had a small, temporary booth near the landing stage; one of those yellow shacks that construction workers use. This one had a big window and inside we saw several people with headphones. By now the radio on the bridge was off, but we could hear the show via loudspeakers that were mounted on several lamp posts.

"And there they are, boys and girls, Saint Nicolas and his Petes! He is looking well this year. Now I don't see Palomino anywhere, but... Yes! I'm told Palomino has been found and he is waiting for Saint Nicolas! He will be so glad to see his master again! Oh my goodness, look at all those gifts! Surely they can't all be for us, here in Leiden?"

I couldn't help myself. I took one of the empty packages and raised it triumphantly in the air.

"Oh look, one of the Petes is showing us a package! He's very small, isn't he? Well, Petes come in all shapes and sizes, of course. OH NO! There it goes! Did you see that, boys and girls?!"

"Sadist," mumbled Sinterklaas. I had pretended the package slipped from my hands and tossed it overboard. Now I was jumping up and down, pretending to be shocked. The fire department dinghy sped up and one of the divers sat on the edge, putting on his mask and breather.

"Oh my goodness, someone will have to go without a gift on packages evening! How awful! What a clumsy Pete! Maybe it's because he is still little!"

Sinterklaas chuckled. I don't appreciate being called out for my size. The diver leaned back and calmly toppled overboard, to retrieve an empty cardboard box.

Eventually we were moored. The mayor of Leiden was waiting to greet us, but he wasn't alone: Esther was there too, with headphones, talking to the mayor.

"Are you nervous, Mr. Mayor?"

"Yes, I am a bit," said the old guy, a sixty-something career politician who had done this a dozen times before.

The gangplank was lowered and a few Petes piled out. I loitered on the aft deck, because it's traditional to sing a specific song when Sinterklaas arrives. The marching band needed a minute, but then they started up with the right song. Thousands of people, young and old, sang:

"Sinterklaasje kom maar binnen met je knecht, want we zitten allemaal even recht!"

(Sinterklaas, come in with your servant, as we are all sat up straight.)

"They're playing my song," grunted Martin, still waving. He calmly made his way to the gangplank. A white horse was waiting on the dock, not in the least impressed by all the noise. He came down the gangplank and shook hands with the mayor and Esther. She held her microphone to the mayor's mouth as he said:

"Sinterklaas! On behalf of all children big and small, please allow me to welcome you and all the Petes to Leiden! How was your trip?"

"Very well, thank you Mr. Mayor," said Martin, mimicking Willems voice exactly. Clever, that. There would be no difference between this Sint and the one who had been on the radio just half an hour ago, when they played the interview with Willem. I hadn't even thought of that.

"Can I say what an absolute pleasure it is to be back in Leiden, and being greeted so warmly? And is this your wife?"

He turned to Esther, who was very obviously not the wife of this sexagenarian and didn't seem pleased that anyone thought she was old enough for that. I could see her colleagues in the booth shaking with laughter. Still, she did her job:

"No Sinterklaas, I am Esther Blokker with Leiden Lokaal FM. Welcome to our city. We found your horse!"

"Ah yes, Palomino. I'm afraid we lost him for a bit. Now, Mr. Mayor, I understand you will be giving me a tour of your city?"

If Martin thought he could get rid of her that easy, he had another thing coming. The script actually called for her to be present for the entire tour, but the mayor would leave for now. Martin was helped onto the horse and his red cloak was draped over the back of the animal.

"Pete, will you take care of this?" he said, handing me his crosier. The marching band lined up between the barriers that kept the street clear and then we built our procession. It started with a few police officers. Some were on foot, but others rode mountain bikes and one even rode on skeelers. Then came the musicians, followed by Martin on horseback and then all the Petes, throwing handfuls of peppernuts into the crowd.

Some children cried, now that Sinterklaas was so near. I did that as well when I was very young. I've never believed in God for a second, but I did believe in Sinterklaas with all my heart. The difference between me and religious people is that I figured out it's bullshit when I was eight. And I had actually MET Sinterklaas, and had tangible proof of his existence!

Other kids tried to get the attention of a Pete so they could get him to give a letter to the Goedheiligman (there's a name for him I haven't used yet, have I?) or if they just wanted to suck up to him for better gifts. Okay, maybe that's unfair. Bask in his Sinterklaas-ness then. There is no greater celebrity in all of Holland than this guy, after all.

Eventually I found myself walking near Esther. She was carrying a backpack with a remote transmitter. Her signal carried a few kilometres and was picked up by an antenna on top of the Pieterskerk (St. Pete's church) which relayed her voice to the mixing desk of Leiden Lokaal FM, where she was a major part of the live show. They did play lots of records and had other reporters looking for stories, so she had some time to herself. I seemed to recall having met her only once, when I was... twelve? Thirteen? It had to have been before Monique showed up. Esther broke him. Monique glued him back together. There are things even a loving sister can't achieve. Anyway, it was extremely unlikely she'd recognize me now that I was no longer a child, and dressed like Black Pete. And so I had a chat with her.

"Is that backpack heavy?"

She smiled at me.

"Could be worse. They used to be lead batteries, but that got better. Hey, you're a girl Pete, right? Not a little boy?"

How to win friends and influence people was probably checked out the last time she went to the library. I offered my hand.

"I'm Kate."

"Hi. I'm Esther. So, are you a volunteer?"

No, I'm an actual full-time Black Pete impersonator. Jesus Christ.

"Yeah. Hey, did you go to Leiden University? I think I remember you."

She must have been at least 13 years older than me, but you can't tell the age of a Pete. Not with the curly wig, the face paint and the gloves.

"I never met anyone named Kate, I think," she said, distractedly. She wore big studio headphones and had one shell on her right ear. The other one was next to her left ear, so she could hear what was going on around her when her microphone was off.

"I think we had the same maths tutor, though? Didn't we have the same guy?"

"Oh? What's his name?"

"Martin van de Casteele."

She was going to shake her head, but then it came to her.

"Oh, yeah! He used to tutor small groups after hours, didn't he? Wow, that feels like it was ages ago. That's probably why I don't remember you, I had to focus way too hard in those classes."

"Yeah, me too. If it wasn't for that guy..."

She nodded.

"Wonder what happened to him. Probably a professor somewhere. Creepy guy."

I wondered how far I could ram this crosier up her snatch before the cops on mountain bikes pulled me off her. I'd say at least a metre.

"Why do you say that?"

"Well, maybe not creepy... Just... A bit too clever, you know? I mean, who the hell likes mathematics? Oh hey, hang on a second..."

She positioned her headphones over both ears and raised her microphone.

"Yes Arjan, I'm right next to Sinterklaas as we are headed towards the Van der Werf-park where I believe we will see a special performance in his honour. I've been chatting to one of the Petes, who is in charge of Sinterklaas's staff. Hi Pete!"

Oh right, I was the easiest mark here. Even though women can be Pete, we typically see the character as male. What was I going to do, lower my voice? I figured that should be her problem, not mine.

"Hello," was all I had to say. Now it occurred to Esther that I sounded wrong.

"This Pete is very young, so he is in charge of the official golden staff at the moment. Is this the first time you have joined the Sint here in Holland?"

Okay, so now I knew what to do. I told you the mythology is detailed, right? It has to be, because young kids want to know all the details. The big, honking lie at the middle goes over their heads, but they do wonder if Petes live in dorms or if they get an allowance. All these details have been accounted for. It's like religion; it's bullshit, but it's very detailed bullshit and that makes it believable to impressionable minds.




Best Sinterklaas Ever



"Yes, it is," I said, trying to speak like an excited little boy. "I'm still at the Pete Training Academy back in Madrid, but because I was top of my class I was allowed to come along this year."

She seemed very pleased with that. I could now hear my own words via the speakers that lined the route, and the radios people who lived in the upstairs houses had placed on the window sill. We were on a three second delay, so they would be able to beep out curses and prevent audio feedback from ruining the live reports. Sinterklaas turned his head and looked at me with a bemused smile. Esther noticed it and held the microphone up to him.

"Sinterklaas! I hear this is a very special Pete?"

"It certainly is," he said, leaning sideways to get to the microphone. "One of the next generation of Petes. They learn to do everything with computers. This is an iPete."

Remember, 2007 was the year the iPhone had come out. This was actually a fairly topical joke. They're usually worked into the narrative. Most social themes of the day were reflected in the Sint and Piet mythology. (The only exception I can recall is the AIDS epidemic.) I think there was even a union-Pete one year.

When Esther was off the air, she rejoined me. Nobody was waving at her, and in fact she must have felt a bit out of place as the only civilian in the parade.

"I used to date him for a while, you know," she said, resuming our conversation.

"But you thought he was a creep!"

"Not a creep sort of creep. I mean, he never tried to feel you up or anything. It's just that, he was so awkward around women, you know? Like we're made from glass. And he didn't drink, he didn't smoke, seemed to know everything... Fucking annoying."

"So why date him?"

"Well, it wasn't really dating. I just needed all the help I could get. And he was very generous. Paid for drinks. My parents loved him, but they wouldn't have been so keen on the guys I actually hung out with. Just wasn't my type, you know? I'm not one of those women who wants to look up to a man. Though our Sinterklaas right here... he's a bit of alright, isn't he?"

"Is he?"

"Yeah. The fireman. You know, big arms, not the deepest thinkers... Go get 'em kind of guys, firemen."

The procession entered the main gate of the park and Martin dismounted. Now he walked along the barriers and shook, or at least touched, as many tiny hands as he could, while me and the other Petes pretended he was urgently expected in the central square of the park, to see a special performance. Leiden has an archery guild, which is exactly as pathetic as it sounds. I suppose it's not entirely unreasonable, as the city dates back to 860 AD and they will have had archers at one point. But now they just had a group of people who couldn't get actual gun permits and liked to dress up. They had a demonstration planned, which Martin pretended to give a fuck about. Esther narrated the whole thing:

"Well, Sinterklaas, the archers of Leiden are ready to give you a demonstration. I'm sure you remember the story of Karel Appel? Who shot an arrow through..."

"What, the painter and sculptor?" asked Martin. "Don't you mean William Tell?"

I nearly pissed myself. Any other Sinterklaas would have let that go, but not Martin and not with this woman. The people who were listening to the radio started to laugh.

"Oh yes, I'm sorry Sinterklaas. I misremembered. Anyway, we're going to see a demonstration here. This is Archery Commander John Schouten and he will be shooting an arrow into an apple which is balanced on the head of this little boy. Hello, what's your name?"

"Erwin," said a little boy of about five. He was dressed like a medieval archer, which must have caused a lot of people think he was a Black Pete who had forgotten to get his make-up applied.

"Aren't you afraid, Erwin?" asked Esther, kneeling down.

"A bit," said the lad, swivelling his torso and putting a finger in his mouth.

"Well, he shouldn't do it, then!" objected Sinterklaas. "If he doesn't want to!"

"It's perfectly safe," objected the Archery Commander.

"Really? Well, if it is that safe, why don't you put the apple on your head and Erwin can shoot the arrow!"

This was not scripted. Sinterklaas never interferes with the displays, he just looks on admiringly. It did make for good radio, so Esther's microphone moved back and forth.

"No, sorry Sinterklaas," said John the archer, now getting nervous. "He's too young."

"Is he? Well, I'm not, am I? I'm over five hundred years old. So you go and stand there, with your apple, and I'll see if I can hit it."

The crowd loved this. It was all clearly audible via the public address system in the park.

"Pete? Did you bring my glasses?" asked Martin of me, as he pretended to search his pockets. His robes had none, of course.

"I'm sorry Sinterklaas, that's Glasses-Pete. I'm Staff-Pete."

"Oh, right. Well, never mind. Fortune favours the bold, right? So, Mister John, if you would..."

John was clearly done with this joke.

"Sorry Sinterklaas, I'm the only one who can do this. It doesn't matter who holds the apple, but nobody can use this bow but me," he said firmly.

"Is that so?"

Martin turned to Esther.

"Okay, you do it. I don't want to see a child get shot. Come on, Miss Esther, give me that microphone. There we go..."

He simply took it from her hands and began to narrate how he walked her to the tree they were going to use, a massive oak that had been here for at least two hundred years.

"Yes but Sinterklaas, I don't want to..." objected Esther, trying to grab back her microphone. But you don't disobey the Sint. When kids are watching, you do as you're told.

"It's perfectly safe, Mr. John the archer said so himself. Come on, stand here... I'll hold the microphone. Now, Esther, don't worry about me. If it goes wrong, my clothes are red anyway."

"Yes but Sinterklaas, please, I..."

He ignored her completely. I was on the other side of her and, like him, I took one of her hands and more or less pinned her to the tree. There were hundreds of people behind the barriers here. The marching band and the police officers were all quiet now. 

"Mr. John? Right here? Is that okay?"

"Yes Sinterklaas!" said John, as he picked up his massive bow from a small table and nocked an arrow. He was twenty metres away, flanked by fellow archers who stood to attention.

"Erwin? Could you bring us an apple? Good lad!"

Erwin ran up to Sinterklaas and give him the apple he would have balanced on his own head. He seemed to think this was much more fun than him being up against the tree.

"Thank you, lad."

Martin put the apple on Esther's head. He held one of her hands, I held the other one. We both leaned away from her.

"Oh, Mr. Bandleader? Can we get a drumroll?" asked the Sint. One of the drummers immediately began to tap it out. Trrrrrrrrrrrrrrr... I looked around Esther and saw Martin gleefully giving John a thumbs up. Esther was shaking like a leaf, but the apple was still on her head.

"I don't..." she whispered. Martin calmly narrated the whole thing into the microphone. His voice rang round the park, but the delay didn't bother him at all.

"And the archer is calmly taking aim there... It's a very small apple, you know."

Trrrrrrrrrr...

Almost casually, John raised his bow, pulled back and took aim.

Trrrrrrrrrr...

"Oh God, Oh God..." whispered Esther.

"Stand still, my dear."

TOK.

I didn't even see the arrow. One second it was twenty metres away, the next I was sprayed by a fine mist of apple juice.

"TATAAAA!" played the band, as a massive applause came from the audience.

"And he did it!" said Sinterklaas. "Well done, John. Best out of three?"

"NO!" cried Esther, now grabbing the mic from Sinterklaas's hands. I could hear an almost maniacal laugh coming from her head set. No doubt that was the director's channel on her transmitter.

It took Esther a minute or so to get over it, but the adrenaline and a sip of water helped her to recover. Like most people who have just done something dangerous, she was now rather excited about it.

"Did you know he'd be able to do it?" I asked Martin, just before he got on the horse.

"No. But he was going to do it with his own son. And I was willing to take the risk."

"How very brave, Sinterklaas," I giggled, as he put his left foot in the stirrups, grabbed the leather knob at the top of the saddle and was back on the horse before Horse Pete knew what had happened. We straightened his cloak and then we moved on.

"Maybe there's a fire eater next," said Sinterklaas, sounding hopeful.

There wasn't. On a street corner we had to watch a little girl recite a short story about the Siege of Leiden as it was acted out by her classmates. This siege is what defines Leiden in our national history. In 1573 the Spaniards, led by Fernando Álvarez de Toledo, surrounded the city and calmly waited until the food ran out. Leiden was one of the cities who had declared allegiance to the Prince of Orange, and the Spaniards couldn't have that.

Long story short: the people of Leiden managed without food for over a year, even though conditions were horrible. The legend has it that the Spaniards, who were needed to fight elsewhere, simply gave up and left. When the gates were opened, the starving people found a big copper kettle filled with carrot stew, 'hutspot' in Dutch.

This is the abbreviated and largely untrue version. I'm sure you don't care much about the actual story, but the upshot of it is that Leiden celebrates its liberation once a year and the traditional dish is hutspot. We also eat herring and white bread, because that is what the 'Geuzen', a confederacy of Calvinist Dutch nobles and other malcontents, brought to the hungry people of Leiden. Essentially, we had to watch a group of school kids have their lunch.

I'll save you descriptions of the other stops. Martin tried to get Esther dunked into a paddling pool, but she stood her ground this time. Still, she was proving that some women really like a bastard, because she didn't seem the least bit upset with him.

Eventually we arrived in the Breestraat, where you'll find Leiden's magnificent City Hall. It looks like a palace and it dates back to 1597. It burned down in 1929, but the Renaissance-style facade survived the fire. Fortunately, the double staircase that leads to the main entrance is still as grandiose as it ever was. It's lined with heraldic lions, holding a crest with the emblem of Leiden. For some reason, there is also a jolly cherub, casually leaning on a skull. Martin pointed that out to me when I was young and from then on, if we were anywhere near City Hall, I'd want to go and look. He taught me to look at art. Not to just stare at it, but to try and interpret what I saw.

Sinterklaas met up with the mayor again, had to listen to another speech and was then invited inside, to rest up. And that was the end of the arrival festivities. The crowd dispersed while all of us were lead to the offices of the mayor and his city councillors. There we could all get something to eat, use the bathroom and remove our make-up. Mrs. Bloothooft was waiting for us and acted as if she was a soigneur at the finish line of the Tour de France.

"Great job, people! Amazing! It sounded like so much fun! There are sandwiches and tea and coffee and milk. If you want to clean up, there are wipes and cream... No, Sinterklaas, not you. And we need one more Black Pete. Kate?"

She stopped Martin and me. He already had his mitre off.

"I'm hungry!" he objected.

"And I need the loo!"

"Yes, dear, I understand. You go and take of that. We have a few more publicity shots we need to to with the councillors. They should all be here in about fifteen minutes."

I could tell Martin wasn't happy. He was clearly very tired. The mayor had overheard us.

"Sinterklaas? You are very welcome to use my private office for a while, to relax. We can get you something to eat. And your staff bearer too, of course."

That sounded good. It would be hard on us if we had to stay in character while the rest got to eat and take off their outfits. As long as you wear the outfit, you are the character. You have to be, because little kids are everywhere and it's terrible to have the magic spell that is Sinterklaas broken because you see him taking off his beard, which is held on by elastic bands under his mitre. Well, not this one: this one was glued on really well, by yours truly.

"Thank you, mayor," sighed Martin. After I had a quick pee we followed the mayor to his office, which was at the far end of the hallway. He had a corner office, that you could only enter via another room. Presumably his secretary worked there. It's funny how, even in this very private moment, none of us broke character. It's just not done.

"There you go, Sinterklaas," said the mayor, as respectful as he had been when he had welcomed us on the dock. "I'll have some sandwiches brought in. Tea? Milk?"

Tea for me, milk for Martin. By then I had already rid myself of that nasty Dutch habit. Huge, cold glasses of milk for lunch. Ugh. Milk, honestly... Milk is for tea, babies and baking, as any Englishman can tell you.

Martin slumped down in a big chair, behind a desk that stood in the middle of the room. The office was furnished with antiques, Persian rugs and historical maps of Leiden. Martin took off his mitre and put it on the desk. The expensive white hairpiece seemed absolutely genuine and it was glued on so he couldn't take it off. At least, not without having to go through the entire application again.

"You okay?" I asked, as I sat down on a big, red velvet chaise longue that was clearly meant for very informal conversations and afternoon naps. It was flanked by a big flagpole with the flag of Leiden.

He had been in character for almost two hours now. That's a lot of waving and inane conversation. He had been frightfully witty whenever Esther had come anywhere near him, though. More than once a storm of laughter had come from the audience, but always with a three second delay.

"Yeah, I'm okay. Kate, I think ordering milk was a mistake. I could really do with tea. Will you swap with me?"

"No, but I'll run back and get you tea. Be right back!"

He gave me a grateful smile and leaned back in the chair. I saw his eyes close as I quietly shut the door behind me.

I ran back to where the others were having lunch. The mayor was just passing along our order, but I changed it. Esther was there as well, because she had been hard at work for just as long. And, like all of us, she'd had a five kilometre walk through Leiden.

"Where's the Sint?" she asked.

"In my office," said the mayor. "I think he could use a small break, don't you? He was great, wasn't he? I don't normally have to stop myself from laughing."

As soon as he said that, I saw Esther slip away. She left her rucksack with her transmitter and even her long, light brown winter coat behind. I caught up with her as she legged it to the office. Clearly she had been there before, probably for an interview.

"Hey! Where are you off to?"

"Willem is alone, dressed as Sinterklaas!" she said, in a conspiratorial tone.

"What?"

"I'm just... I'm so fucking horny right now. He and I hit it off this morning. I'm going to get myself some Nicolas-dick! How awesome is that?!"

She scanned the corridor.

"Would you keep an eye on the door?"

She seemed to think we were friends.

"That's not..."

I shut up just in time.

"... not... a problem... Hey, let me just bring in his lunch, so you won't be disturbed, okay? Give me two minutes."

"Yeah, yeah, okay!" she said, excitedly. Just then Mrs. Bloothooft appeared, carrying a tray.

"I'll take that in!" I said, almost wrestling it from her hands.

"Thank you, Kate. Ham and cheese for him, jam and egg salad for you."

Mrs. Bloothooft knew what we liked. Our mother worked nights at a retirement home, so she wasn't often there to cook for us. Which was good, because she couldn't boil water without it turning sour or separating. That's why Mrs. Bloothooft generally showed up at around five, to prepare our dinner. It was a nice little side job for her and the woman knew how to cook.

"Wait two minutes, then come in," I whispered. Esther nodded and pretended to be interested in an aerial survey map of Leiden.

Martin had almost nodded off when I entered.

"Ah, lovely. Thanks, Katey."

"Listen! Big surprise for you! Esther is on her way here!"

"Why? Another interview? Bloody hell, I just want to have lunch in peace."

"No! It's brilliant! Listen, just go along with it."

"With what?"

"She thinks you're Willem! She wasn't there when he left the boat. She thinks Willem is wearing your outfit!"

"So?"

"So, torture her! She wants to chat him up! She's into him!"

"Oh, I seeeeeee... Look, that's childish. Send her away."

"Oh come on, it will be hysterical!"

"No it won't, it will be awkward. I'm not interested in a reunion."

There was a knock on the door. I had a pretty good idea who that might be, so I opened it and squeezed right through, closing it behind me.

"Is he up for it?" asked Esther, whispering.

"Yes. But he's a bit nervous, so you need to come in and, like, go all out. How about you ah..."

Our coats were with Mrs. Bloothooft, but Esther was wearing wore a short, teal jacket for indoors. I put my thumbs behind the lapels.

"What?! But, is he alone there?"

I had no idea why she thought I had primed Willem for some sex, considering we didn't know each other. Was she confusing the roles of the real Sint and Piet? Because I'm pretty sure Piet would get the Sint laid, if he could. He's the quintessential wingman.

"Yes. Polishing his staff as we speak, I'm sure," I said, sliding the jacket from her shoulders. I took it from her and walked to the door that lead to the hallway, which I closed. Then I gestured at her blouse.

"Maybe you should..." I said, miming opening the buttons. "So he'll know why you're here."

She opened four buttons. I saw a very cute black bra. Hunkemöller, would be my bet.

"Like this?"

"Yeah. Then come in and be a very bad girl. I'll keep a lookout here, okay?"

She nodded eagerly. She checked her hair in the reflection of the framed document, a replica of the 1575 foundation document of the University of Leiden by William the Silent. I gave her the thumbs up and pretended to go out into the hallway.

I didn't, of course. And soon as she closed the door behind her I came back, locked the outer door and almost ran up to the door which lead to the mayor's office. It had a keyhole at a very convenient height for someone my size.

"Hello, Sinterklaas..." she cooed. I could only see her back, but it was clear she was opening her shirt a bit more. A flabbergasted Sain. Nicolas was just about to bite into a cheese sandwich.

"Wh... huh?"

"I've come to ask if I've been good this year." She sauntered towards him. "And if not, if there is anything we might do about it..."

"Look, Esther, there's been a mistake."

"Has there? Does it say I've been good? Because I really haven't."

By now she was right in front of him. He was in a swivel chair, which she rotated so his legs wouldn't be underneath the desk. Poor guy... You'd think at his age he'd have at least some experience in role playing, or at least would know what to do with a woman who actually wanted a bit of fun. The crosier, which had been leaning against a book case, toppled over as the floorboards buckled ever so slightly and landed on a Persian rug with a dull thud. Martin tried to get up.

"Now listen to me," he began, but she pushed him back into the chair, thinking he had other plans.

"We don't have time for the whole thing," she said urgently. "But I can manage a preview."

She sank to her knees and put her hands under his alb, which had a crochet lining. A secret of the Sinterklaas outfit is that Sint wears sweatpants. His outfit is heavy and warm enough as it is and even though you don't want to shock the kids as you get on the horse, you can't very well show them denim jeans. Grey sweatpants are ideal. They're warm and they blend in with the other fabric. Funnily enough, Sinterklaas sometimes wears sneakers, but in this case Martin still had his black leather shoes on. It was around this time he decided he was working against his own best interest. Esther reached up, grabbed the edge of the sweatpants and pulled everything down.




Best Sinterklaas Ever



"I see you have a backup staff," she grinned, as she dove under the alb. I was glad to hear that, because erectile dysfunction is one of the early warning signs for cardiac problems. Esther was under his robe for about half a minute, but then she shuffled backwards on her knees.

"Sorry, it's too dark and too warm there. I'd like to know what I'm doing," she said, as she stood up and kicked off her shoes.

"But what if someone comes in?"

"They won't. I have a friend on lookout. Come on, Sinterklaas, hoist it up!"

My brother is one of the smartest people you will ever meet, but he can be incredibly dense when it comes to girls. I was glad to see he showed a modicum of common sense today; he stood up and let Esther lift up his alb. The red chasuble opened at the front, so that was no problem. I couldn't see his dick because she was in the way, but I could certainly see what she started doing to it.

At that age, eighteen, I had not sucked dick myself yet. And if I was honest, I was always a bit ambivalent about it. We had a shared computer at home and I never dared to go and explore, because back then browsers didn't come with an obvious 'hide your porn history'-button. I'd had a rummage in the pants of a boy who took me to see a movie, but within seconds I had ended up with a sticky hand that urgently needed washing and I'd left it at that. But considering the enthusiasm with which Ester was bobbing up and down on my brother's cock, I was seriously reconsidering my position. Surely nothing is THAT good? I was sort of considering switching to girls, mostly because a guy like my brother was nigh-on impossible to find anyway, but it clearly needed further exploration.

I hoped they would all be like that. But what if it was just HIS cock that made her grunt and drool and yank her own nipples like they were play-dough? That would be a bit awkward. His was the one I could never have! Still, there were about three billion of them and I was still young. I'd take a representative sample before I made up my mind.

I don't know if it was the fact that half his face was hidden by a beard and a moustache, or if he was just in shock, but dear old St. Nicolaas didn't respond very much. At one point he put his hands, not currently gloved, on her shoulder, but that was it. Even if he had made a noise, I wouldn't have been able to hear it over her. Jesus, what a slut.

I did hear a wet plop, presumably when she let him pop out of her mouth.

"Is it good?" she panted, as she shook her white blouse from her shoulders, reached behind her back and undid the clasp of her brassiere.

"Yes," he said, rather weakly.

"Am I doing it okay? Am I going too hard on your balls? I sometimes do that."

"Balls are okay... Just... Carry on."

"Yes, Sinterklaas! So, do you ever visit Russia?"

"What?"

"Because I can let your staff slide between these two babushka's," she giggled. I guess he was getting some tittyfucking. And he seemed to like it, because ten seconds in he went off! I could see a few flecks of sperm as the sunlight hit them. She squealed with delight. I got up, opened a few desk drawers at random and was relieved to find a packet of paper handkerchiefs. I guessed he was done now and I didn't care about her, so I knocked on the door and said:

"It's been five minutes! Sint is expected for photographs!"

"Don't come in!!" yelled Martin, sounding very alarmed. I just giggled, opened the door just enough to put my hand through it and, just like Zwarte Piet always does, threw in the packet of handkerchiefs. It's usually peppernuts but I guessed these would be or more use. Then I closed the door. Someone was raising a ruckus on the other side of the secretary's office.

"Hello? Can I come in?" said the Mayor, banging on the door in the hallway. He sounded annoyed. I ran towards it and unlocked it.

"What's going on?" he asked, as he forced his way inside.

"I'm sorry Mr. Mayor, that was me. I live in a student dorm and I always lock up behind me. Force of habit."

"Oh. Right. Well, the city council is here and we're ready for the Sint, so..."

He moved towards the second door, but I blocked him.

"I think the Sint is just having a nap."

"He can have a nap when we're done. I have sixty people waiting."

"Yes, but he's also having lunch! And he takes off his beard!" I said, moving in front of him like a rugby flanker. He gave me an impatient stare.

"I think by now I've figured out the deal with Sinterklaas, young lady. Now if you will excuse me," he said, and shoved me aside.

I followed him into the office, where Sinterklaas was calmly munching the last bit of a cheese sandwich. He looked very dignified, with his staff leaning against the book cabinet and his mitre on the desk.

"Hello, Mr. Mayor."

"Hello. Are you..."

He took a deep whiff. The room had indeed become a bit funky. Then he looked at me.

"Did you two..." he said, looking shocked.

"Goodness no! I'm his sister!" I said, wondering how Esther had disappeared. Martin was putting on his gloves and got up, still chewing.

"Very well... umph. I'd liked to have had at least ten minutes for lunch, but as duty calls..."

I looked to my left and saw one of Esther's shoes underneath the red velvet chaise longue. And then I saw a slow moving hand drag it off into the darkness behind it.

"Shall we?" I said, opening the door. Shame about my uneaten sandwiches...

Mrs. Bloothooft waited for us in the hallway, ready with glue and black make-up, in case we needed a touch-up. She fussed over us for a minute or so, maybe not so much because we were Sint and Piet but because we were Kate and Martin, whom she had been taking care of for a few years.

"Look at you, there's breadcrumbs on your stola... Fingerprints all over the staff... And egg salad! On your crosier! I mean, how does THAT work?"

What? I saw Martin looking very alarmed. Mrs. Bloothooft scooped up a dollop of creamy egg salad which dripped from the rose that was at the centre of the crosier. And, being of a practical nature and not very fussy, casually licked her finger clean

"There. Ooh, that's gone off. Kate, did you eat that?"

"N... No..."

"Oh good. Anyway, ten more minutes and then you're cleared. Kate? What's so funny? Kate, we really haven't got time for one of your laughing fits, dear. Come on, everyone is waiting. Kate, come on. You're crumpling your outfit. Get up! I'm so sorry, Mr. Mayor!"

Taking pictures with the council and the individual aldermen took about fifteen minutes. Esther appeared after about five minutes, looking as if nothing had happened but grinning just a bit too much at the Sint. 

Her smirk disappeared rather quickly as Willem walked in, talking and gesticulating to one of the firemen who had remained on board as Pete.

"... bloody waste of time, these precautionary landings. Nine cars from two regions! I mean, what the hell? And you know what it was? A STROKE! Some fat guy with a heart-attack! I'm going to find that dispatcher and pull his fucking head off, I swear to... Oh, hello! Sorry, Mr. Mayor!"

Everyone was headed to the bar for coffee, so nobody minded. Except Esther. She minded a lot.

"Hey, Ton! How did you do, man? I hear great things!" he said, as he slapped Martin's shoulder.

"WHAT?" said Esther.

"We caught most of the radio show. Really very funny!"

Martin switched to a flawless impersonation of the soft-spoken stutter of our Captain, who had in fact remained with the ship and would by now have dropped off another Sinterklaas in Rijnsburg or Katwijk. This was the day for him to make some money.

"Th... th... thank you, Willem. I.. di.. di... did my b... best."

"Who... What... W... Weren't YOU in the costume?!" bristled Esther at Willem.

"No, I was called away. Hey, Ton, your stutter is back! Ha!"

"I guess I... loo... loo... lose it wh... when I'm a... acting."

"Guess you do! Come on, let's get a beer!"

"WAIT A MINUTE!" wailed Esther. Mrs. Bloothooft gently pushed her away, so she could get to Martin.

"Sorry dear, he deserves some peace and quiet right now, and to get out of that outfit. Everybody say 'Dag Sinterklaasje' for another year, okay?"

Martin was very quiet on the ride home. We hadn't seen Esther agin. After all, what was she going to say? 'I demand to see the guy I sucked off in the Mayor's office because I have a thing for older men dressed as fictional saints?'

We had called ahead. Monique was waiting for us with dinner. It's a boring trip, from Leiden to Soest. First you head East, until you hit Utrecht. Then you drive around it and head North. Don't expect any dramatic vistas. It's Holland, after all.

"I suppose you know what happened," he said, after we'd been driving for half an hour in almost complete silence.

"Yes."

"Monique must never know."

"Then don't tell her."

Another five minutes passed. It was getting dark now, as the days were drawing short. The lights along the highway began to glow a soft orange, which would become brighter as they warmed up. It was nice and warm in the car, but I was worried about Martin. 

"I've never cheated on her. Ever."

I put my hand on his thigh.

"It just happened. It's not cheating."

"Yes, it is. It would kill her."

I found it hard not to scoff. It's not as if Monique was very warm towards him. I'd be surprised if she ever gave him a blowie like that.

"I won't say a word, Martin. And don't go confessing your crimes, either. It's two people, sharing an intimate moment."

"It's rape, that's what it is. Did you see her face when she found out?"

"Rape, really? And who raped whom? She started it. And she was happy to do it. Reminds me of that joke, of the hooker who comes into the police station, saying she's been raped because she was paid with a fake bill."

He gave me a very awkward look.

"Not much of a joke."

I can't handle it very well if he is disappointed in me.

"Sorry. But I'm sure it's fine. I won't say a word. Don't know what got into her."

He sighed.

"I'd never hurt Monique. I love her, you know."

"I know. But tou're only human. This doesn't take anything away from what you have with her. Let it go, Martin."

He mulled it over.

"I suppose so. When are you leaving, sweetheart?"

"Tomorrow."

"Oh. Shame. Too soon."

I knew how he felt. It's always too soon. I'd stay with him forever, if I could. But being his sister, as cruel as that is because it has these boundaries you can never cross, does have one advantage: he'll never divorce me. And I'll always do my best to be the best sister ever.